


Buried in the Sunflower Field

by momomasoch



Series: Adolescent Gardens [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Abortion, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Boarding School, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Menstruation, Mpreg, Non-Consensual, Parent/Child Incest, School Uniforms, Semi-Public Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momomasoch/pseuds/momomasoch
Summary: A very bittersweet summer for Kurt.
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel, Burt Hummel/Kurt Hummel
Series: Adolescent Gardens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788865
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Buried in the Sunflower Field

**Author's Note:**

> In addition to the warnings and tags, there are descriptions of all sorts of bodily functions.

When Kurt was more of a child, sixteen and sophomoric and uninitiated to pubertal woes—pudge-thickened limbs and a fudge-stained mouth—his father drove him to the corner store, as he clutched a stack of gasoline-station napkins within the elastic of spotted underwear, and sweat and shivered through his first heat; Burt gruffly grabbed the first box of cushioned sanitary napkins—extra-padded, the sort for girls on their newfound menstruations—and dropped it in front of the cashier, muttering as he fumbled for copper pennies: “I didn’t expect an _alpha_ , but I’d wanted for him to be a beta. Kids!” 

Throughout the ride home, the blush of blood, red and vibrant in his face, had almost burnt his ears and cheeks. 

—And between his thighs: dripping, rich, and fruitful.

* * *

Burt and Carole were betas, and as such, they were not too affected by Kurt’s monthly illnesses. Burt gruffly insisted for his son to attend classes: “Cold or no cold, school is important.”—but Carole seemed a smidgen more sympathetic, forging notes to excuse him from physical education lessons, leaving him brand-less pills to help with the first crampings of his irritable womb. Finn, the only alpha of the household, couldn’t stand to share a home with Kurt during heat season, and stayed over at Puckerman’s house. 

But none of them truly understood—why he begged for cold compresses, for powdery sticks of deodorant to hide the bodily reek of raw meat, for someone to refill his prescription for suppressants: seven doses of pink pills, one for each day of the week—and it bankrupted the entire family, every month. Obscenely expensive, even as Kurt was still beneath his father’s medical insurance, and worst of all: rather ineffective. Taken daily, the medicine dampened the sexual aches and urges, but there were still the other consequences: the bloating, the staining, the _humiliation_ of it all.

How Kurt caught Finn staring at him in the hallway, console controller dangling from one hand, gulping and swallowing his little brother’s personal pheromonic perfume of wilting flowers and curing salt. 

How Burt shared the bowl of microwaved vegetables over supper, blind to the fresh crescents of puce and emerald and golden bite-marks inflicted on Kurt’s throat—Karofsky’s work. If not for his struggles, Kurt would not have been spared the _mating_ , nibbling progressing to gnawing.

How Dalton—an academy of entirely alphas—was a perilous place for him to be, during his ferocious heats.

* * *

There were classes, even in the summer, at Dalton.

Blaine mopped up a fat, honeysuckle droplet of sweat from Kurt’s chin, blotting with a napkin, smiling sympathetically. “It is hot in here, isn’t it? The headmaster is under the impression that heat is good for the character, so we don’t have an air-conditioning system. Along with other—more archaic practices. I can’t say I agree with all of them.”

Kurt was almost swooning from the swelter: his cheeks cherry-bright, plush lips loose and damp, the first button of his uniform collar popped apart. It was frightfully warm, but more than that—his schoolmates had been excessively affectionate and friendly, since that morning. The eager patting of broad hands at his shoulder—the fixated gazes over glossy lesson-books—the joining of the crooks of arms. It had everything to do with the sticky blotting of blood, caught by a ruffled napkin bunched within his undergarments, and the spring tenderness of his flesh: so desperate, he could yield to anyone. It was a burden and a relief for Blaine to wordlessly grasp his distress, even without a tangible reason, and volunteer to tutor the underclassman.

Hours, they had been studying, and the other boy hardly seemed very bothered: thick curls growing coarser in the afternoon boil, dark brows rising in encouragement—and, when correcting papers with a ruby pencil, he caught a whiff of foreign odor—umami and bittersweet—nostrils widening, upper lip curling, trying to place it. No longer simply schoolmates, but alpha and omega. Kurt shuddered, and gently transferred his caramel-colored school-bag to settle between their wobbling knees. 

Blaine was hard; Kurt pretended he never saw.

“I just want to finish my math problems; if I can avoid igniting the textbook.” He said, mildly, and the tension dissolved into another dreamy day. “Do you think there’s ice in the kitchens?” Kurt asked, in breathless chastity. He could barely read the equations: blurred between fluttering lashes.

“—I can ask for a bucket.” Blaine uttered, his tone low, strained: the subtle shifting of sturdy legs, the groaning of the wooden chair. “They can’t expect us to work in these—conditions.”

“It—it is too hot.” Kurt complained, in agreement, unable to stand upon fragile and buckling knees. Behind his battered bag, the jumbled contents of sliced sandwiches and never-sent love letters, there jutted—Blaine’s erection: hard and thick and _knotting_. Kurt felt himself dampen, wetting his underwear: his horrible instincts. Gingerly, he prodded at his own front: half-flaccid and twitching and warm: a cherry-pink branch, beginning to blossom. He snapped his hand away, as if from an active oven: practically almost stroking himself, and in front of Blaine, no less!

But the opposite adolescent did not notice, gathering books and bits and bobs, hastily retreating to fetch the promised treats. “I’ll get some, right now. I’ll be right back; don’t leave with anyone.”

Blaine’s incisors and molars were slightly sharp: when he grinned, all of them were revealed. Kurt wondered: how would it feel, the scraping of those teeth against his neck.

* * *

Masturbation was not a cure. Not that Kurt had ever tried it—it would be a futile exercise in embarrassment: orgasm would always elude an omega without a mate—and the one glimpse of pornographic material he had watched, only made him weep: those poor performers, naked and sullied and brutalized for an audience. 

He held himself firmly, fingers laced around the slender shaft, dangling between pert testes and the patch of curling chestnut hair—shaven bare no less than a week previous, growing again, a miserable garden—listening to the pattering of urine, and tucking himself away when finished. Sitting, to exchange one bloodied square of cotton for another. Vigorously scrubbing his hands and nails with soap, afterwards. —Would Blaine touch himself, in a public stall? To pull and jerk at his impressive boyhood, as his fellow classmates meandered around the pale ceramic sinks.

Kurt sighed, and scratched at the foil package of his monthly medicine, marked as ‘Tuesday’ in his curling cursive handwriting. He swallowed the pastel pill, grimacing, and went to join his peers.

* * *

Breakfast, served with antique china and genuine silver cutlery, in the dining hall: were crisped fried eggs, the edges slightly crackling from over-cooking, the yolk quivering and spilling brightly over the tines of the fork and the blade of the knife. Kurt frowned dourly downwards, and met Blaine’s watchful gaze.

“You’re not hungry?” Blaine inquired, precisely slicing his toast into stripes, glistening with sweet butter. 

His appetite withered, but Kurt hastily replied: “No, I am—I just don’t have the stomach for— _omelette pathétique_.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re picky.” Blaine chided, laughing, and dropped down two immaculate slices of toast upon the plate. “Have some of this.”

Kurt nibbled at his own tongue, swallowing a complaint—and began scooping spoonfuls of strawberry jam upon his new option. “Thank you.” Eggs and jam; reproduction and menstruation—everything reminded him of his perverse mating season, taunting.

But—even privacy could not be bought in the sparkling academy, as a few of the choir club crowded into their private luncheon. Boys whose names and faces Kurt barely knew: Gavin, with the tear-drop mole on one cheek—Benjamin, the stout brunette—Marcus, the somewhat-handsome blond. He sat patiently, as the young alphas poked and prodded at his ribs and shoulders—playful, friendly, appropriate, if not for the absence of consent asked. 

“Warbler Kurt!” Benjamin proclaimed, cheery and jovial. “The council wants you for a meeting after classes.”

“A meeting?” Blaine asked, swallowing a mouthful of toast. “Why wasn’t I consulted?”

The messenger immediately faltered, the tune absent from his tone. “It’s just for Kurt—we were all told to invite him.”

“—Did you behave badly again?” Blaine joked.

“They’re not kicking me out, are they?” Kurt asked, scrambling his eggs: a childish yellow mush.

“Not without my permission.”

* * *

“—It’s about your condition, Warbler Kurt.”

“I beg your pardon?” He broached, foolish in his cherry-bright cardigan: among the blackberry-dark blazers, he attracted stifled laughter and quiet mockery.

“The council has decided to give you an excused absence, for the month.”

“You can’t—I-I won’t leave. My—sickness—is only for the week. I have to sing! Even just the chorus!” He begged, furious and nauseous.

“It is not optional. All of the other Warblers would be—troubled, and omegas are—irrational.” The older boys were not listening to his plight: one knocked his knuckles along the walnut wood of the table.

“And what if I refuse? I could tell Blaine.” He insisted, citrus-stung and hurt.

“Then you would be disciplined.” The sentence was primly pronounced.

—Kurt went silent; he did not care to learn the details of a punishment.

“Dalton has dealt with the occasional omega, in the grand history of its tradition.” Benjamin—from before, gestured with one pudgy hand. “Usually the son of an influential family, to transfer in against the all-alpha rule. He would always, even if he tried otherwise, end up acting out. So the alphas took turns with him—and after the heats and ruts had ended, everyone’s behavior returned to civility. We could still do that—you’re the first omega to attend in years, but the practice never was officially ended.”

Hands and mouths and teeth and cocks—of every single student in the school. Biting and marking and impregnating. Kurt swallowed his own vomit. “I don’t want that sort of help.”

“So take your absence. Catch up on your schoolwork. Consider this an earned break.”

* * *

Kurt sweat and sobbed, nesting beneath the sheets: hues of marionberry and strawberry, bruises and congealing cuts—one quivering hand scraping and pinching at the creamy lining of one thigh, resisting tugging at his own cock, his half-erection untouched and dripping April puddles of pre-come into the plumage of the bedding. Reeking of salt and summer, sniffling at Blaine’s odor: earth-clotted and woodsy and masculine, where it lingered upon one of the school cardigans; pressing a bit of woolen cloth from the discarded uniform to his mouth, wetting it with his spittle, between shuddering breaths—his entrance wet and fluttering, the pucker waiting to be penetrated, coming without touching himself at all—spilling pearls of milk and salt, bliss and misery.

When washing himself afterwards, in a bath of prismatic suds and bright bars of candied soap, Kurt counted the number of pills left in his monthly dosage.

* * *

June was just beginning, and Kurt felt the pale cotton of his blouse wilting against the frame of his shoulders, the wooden buttons sticking to flesh, pungent boy-scent suppressed by powdering beneath the arms. Some of the students went home, for the broader part of the odd seasonal semester: to lounge in tropical seas or grow bronze and warm in sunny sands. He only had the company of stringed crickets and jewel-shelled cicadas—and the occasional classmate.

“Should I leave, too?” He asked, mouth hot, his tongue swollen and gelatin-melting in the stagnant heat.

“Why would you ask that?” Blaine replied, blazer folded over the back of his chair, wet spots widening against his shirt: glimpses of curled hair, beneath the arms; the peppering of more hair at his muscled wrists.

Kurt, in contrast, dotted with apricot-fine vellus along slender limbs, and hairless thighs, shaved to infant bareness. He crumpled up a lace napkin between his fingers, to blot them. A pomegranate-bright droplet—of rotten tissue and womb lining—spilled out, absorbed by his underwear; he sat stiffly at his desk. He considered telling Blaine: of the archaic rituals, the primal masculinity, the threat of early motherhood—

_Your friends offered to rape me._

“I miss home.” Was all he said.

“It would be fine, if you went back for a few weeks. I know how much you miss your father. But—”

Kurt’s half-bare arms prickled with goose-flesh, by the rifling of a breeze; the private study quarters were occupied by just them, adjacent tables and handsome chairs sitting empty. “Yes?” He prompted.

“Before you leave—we’re good friends, and I can _tell_ it’s your mating season, Kurt. Everyone can tell. And—I know you don’t like sex, after what happened with Karofsky, but—would it be so bad if I helped you?”

It was not because of that corpulent, brutal alpha; Karofsky was not the reason for intimate difficulties. In part, he could have contributed to it, but a repulsive kiss was not the sole source. And it wasn’t merely a matter of preferences, as if frosting or icing—but a genuine fright of the act. Kurt ought to give a correction—but he was too startled by the proposition. “With—with you?”

“We’ll still be friends afterwards. But your heat must be giving you stress—just as much as my rut gives me stress. How it gives me— _wants_. Feelings which are normal and natural, and you have to _learn_ that. I don’t want another alpha _teaching_ you.” Blaine seemed to interpret the other’s wobbling mouth and stunned silence as acceptance, because he stood when Kurt did, pressing the dimples of the small boy’s buttocks up against the desk.

“Blaine—someone could just come in, and—I said no— _oh_!” Firm hands curled beneath his thighs, half-carrying him onto the desk, laid out atop the homework papers and baby-blue pencils and crumbling erasers.

“Kurt, it won’t hurt—and I’ve prepared, so—there won’t be any complications. We’re just friends; helping.” When did Blaine purchase a package of condoms: a foil-encased square sat in the palm of his hand, simply split open, the circlet of rubber glimmering with lubricant.

Trousers and undergarments were pulled down: Blaine eased the protective pocket over his erect cock: the head was bulbous and paprika-dark, foreskin withdrawn, the shaft roped with veins, the knot beginning to swell—the approximate size of a fist. Kurt’s own cock sticking flaccid against his thigh: tender and raw, small and humble, as it were. The difference between an alpha and an omega.

It was agony—the sheer amount of flesh Kurt could accommodate was perhaps a few inches, and Blaine measured far more than that: impaling him with a measured thrust. Kurt groaned between cries, the familiar flavor of tears: “No, I— _ah_ —I don’t want—don’t wanna—” A helpless moan; it was too much and in such depth —the very crown of Blaine’s cock crushing the cervical entrance. —From just the initial penetration, the pink baby-pudge of his stomach was wettened by his own come, milky washings of it. “ _Ugh_! A- _ah—_!”

“Just—just the knot, Kurt, almost all of it is in—” Blaine had not even begun moving, and Kurt coughed and sobbed at the advancing of an even larger intrusion, hands pressed to his _cherry_ cheeks and his _wrung_ cock bobbing.

“It won’t—I can’t—” He begged: anatomy simply would now allow such a joining: his narrow pelvis and bloodied pucker strained to their natural extents. But Blaine jerked forwards, his erection engorged beneath the thin rubber coating, and—the knot popped inwards.

Kurt was too full—Blaine was too big, simple as that; stabbing and shoving in thunderous thrusts, teeth gnawing at a vulnerable throat. They were mating—not purely mating, but _conquering_ —Kurt whimpering muffled cries, phlegm dripping from his nostrils, coming once more, shuddering before Blaine did, too—and the snapping of rubber, the sloshing of semen following, bloating the youth’s stomach into a little mound, firmly plugged. 

“Out—pull _out_ of me—” Kurt protested, but Blaine’s couldn’t—it hurt to try and they both winced. “I-if you don’t—I’ll get pregnant, _please_ , _pull out_!”

“My knot will go down—in a few hours.” Blaine groaned through the haze of ecstasy. “Wait—don’t squirm so much—it’ll just get bigger.”

“Ah— _ah_ — **ah** —” A third one wrecked Kurt, reduced to snotty cries and sniffles, his stomach crusting with his own seed. “I can’t have children—I’m still a _child_ —”

But, his pheromones hinted, that the scenario was intended all along. To bear a son or daughter, to produce a family, even a platonic marriage—Blaine would be a good husband, the spouse earning the wealth to keep them fed and warm. And Kurt could stay at home, dabbling in domestic crafts: baking and sewing and dreaming.

When evening began to descend, their bodies loosened enough for them to part. Blaine helped Kurt wipe off the congealed semen, with cloths for washing windows. Solemnly, he said: “I’ll be responsible. You can go to a hospital—to get rid of anything—and my family will pay for it.” 

* * *

The father welcomed his son back, over a supper of canned vegetables: wilted cabbages and bloated baby carrots, the bitterness of baked brussels sprouts, all of it similar to samples of soap. 

“I’ve been eating healthy, since you went to your new school.” Burt proudly explained. 

Kurt picked at his portion with the tines of a fork, asking idly: “Do you have anything more nutritious to eat?”

“Why, what do you want? It’s not easy cooking this, you know. I’m more of a—an old-fashioned tee-vee dinner kind of guy; meat and potatoes. I cooked this for you! I thought you’d like it.”

“I-I-I do, dad.” He stammered. “I do. I like it. I was just craving, _um_ —variety.” 

“If you want variety, there’s your salt and pepper.” An unhappy grunt.

The fetus curled in the womb—not a baby, still, just clumps of egg and sperm—weighed heavily.

* * *

There was alcohol on his father’s breath, his lips. Burt was never affectionate, and Kurt stiffened at the fumbling of two oil-stained fingers, pinching the fat of his buttocks. “Dad?”

“Who bit you?” Heavy, pungent breaths, bitter with frothing beer.

“What? No—no one—” Fingers clapped over his neck: the scars from Blaine’s mouth still irritated and puffy, stinging every time he tried to disinfect it with fluffy bits of cotton and bottles of iodine, flimsy bandages peeling. “It’s nothing. That scar is from when I was a kid.”

“I know what that is! Your mother had a marking, too. Even though I’m a beta—but if you bite hard enough—we made it work, even without destiny or mating or any of that alpha bullshit.”

“That’s not appropriate.” Kurt insisted, swatting away the fingers.

“You’re the one spreading your _pheromones_ around, Kurt!” The pinching was replaced by a bare-palmed spank. “I’m trying to protect you, but you don’t listen. You go to that _school_ for alphas! You’re walking around _unclaimed_! I love you, but I wish you could’ve been like everyone else: born a normal omega, or at least pick a nice alpha girl—for your _own_ sake, not mine. Guys are always gonna be after you! And you can’t fight back against all of them.”

Kurt’s knees buckled at the blow: pure childish submission—glancing downwards, peeping beneath the hem of his trousers, a bright scarlet imprint of his father’s hand ached upon one cheek. “Ignoring all of your prejudices—there was so much _misogyny_ and _homophobia_ and _anti-omegism_ that I can’t begin to start—clearly, the consequences of a good-old-Southern upbringing are still there.”

“You’re too much like your mother.” Burt muttered thickly; Kurt crinkled his nose.

The following moments were snippets of the fatherly and the forbidden—Kurt groaning, nose crushed against the wide nostrils of his father’s—teeth held together as best as he could, to ward off the sour tongue poking between his plump lips—a sloppy, wet kiss, burdened with incestuous fruit: the scratch of growing bristles, the comfort of parental arms and the horror of the paternal mouth. Kurt pushed—once, against Burt’s belly.

The man stumbled backwards; the child fled. 

* * *

The following morning, Burt poured cold, sweet milk into a bowl for breakfast, shoving a box of dry cereal at Kurt. 

Kurt nibbled the flakes of wheat, sodden in his spoon; still swallowing the flavor of his father.

* * *

By August, Kurt could not stop vomiting; his stomach starting to protrude; gaining more subtle pounds by the day; his flat, boyish breasts leaking premature milk.

He drove to a clinic, forging his age onto the paper forms he was asked to complete, paying with Blaine’s credit card—loaned to him for that very reason. The hospital gave him medication—and by the end of the day, there were a few thicker lumps in the lining of his sanitary napkin: the pregnancy ended.

He scrubbed and rinsed at the brown patches of his underwear, stinking of warm earth—before folding them at the very bottom of the garbage basket. He was too young for a family.

* * *

Kurt returned for autumnal lessons, giving brittle smiles to the identical boys in their matching uniforms. A collar jingled around his throat. 

"Does Dalton have a gardening club?" He asked, upon greeting his schoolmates.

Blaine, whose licorice-dark curls were held down with artful plaster, his face nestled in a tartan scarf, grinned. "Of course we do. You can plant the approved fruits or vegetables, and even take anything you grow home. But most of it, the club gives to the kitchens. Why? Want to grow some flowers?"

"Something like that, as long as I don't get dirt underneath my nails." Kurt replied, with a sniff.

* * *

The great furred heads of sunflowers drooped in the September afternoon. Digging a shallow hole with a trowel, Kurt buried the pits of peaches and the seeds of strawberries, as if a burial.

It was only practical, to plan ahead for his own.


End file.
